Sleeping with Ghosts
by Silverhair Theory
Summary: I come here every night to sleep on the cold grass on my lover's grave. He lies with me and kisses me with lips I dare not respond to. He is not real, but I will never leave him. HD


**Author:** Silverhair Theory

**Title:** Sleeping with Ghosts

_In Memory Of_

_Harrison James Potter_

_Died Age 17_

_Set up by the resistance as a tribute to a fallen Hero_

_You live on in our memories, Harry_

A tear. A shining crystal, pure as dew-water and sparkling as moonlight on a calm lake. Glistening for one perfect second on an alabaster cheek before falling, the perfect teardrop shape as drawn by little children the world over. Splashing on the dark ground and soaking away into the earth.

"Don't cry, Dragon." A beautiful voice, echoing like the tongues of many angels, passing across my consciousness. I do not turn to look, I know he is standing there looking at my tears with a perfect smile of sorrow. I am content to watch the words on his tombstone, engrave them into my heart as they are engraved onto this hard stone. I know I must watch and not turn, because he is not really there.

"Dragon? Look at me." The voice, like starlight on a river, compels me to turn my head by I shut my eyes. I do not want to be confronted by his beautiful emerald gaze. I know that if I do, I will cry some more…and Malfoys do not cry.

"Open your eyes. Please Dragon, open your eyes." I feel my eyes begin to flicker open and I shut them tight once more. My father says I must banish these visions. He says they are not real, that they are just memories. That the image of my lover in front of me is just that; an image, like a shadow in a mirror.

"No." I say, and I cannot keep the shaking out of my voice. "You...you're not real." I feel another tear run down my face and it pools at the corner of my mouth.

Soft, a light caress against my skin that I once thought was cold. But now I know what cold really is, I know what it is like to be kissed by ghosts. That is all I have left now. Memories and ghosts and visions. Oh, I could have more. They promise me I could have it all, have the whole world, be the dark prince and the heir to the throne of the entire earth.

But I cannot. He would not want me to. And even though I know he is gone, dead, buried beneath my very feet, I cannot let go of him. I do not remember the last time I slept in the manor. This is my home now, the cold grass above my lover's grave.

He always appears before me, sitting with me and talking about nothing. I used to talk back. We would talk all night, just about ourselves. He told me about his mother and father, her fiery red hair, the faceted emerald eyes he inherited from her and his unruly messy locks and glasses that he has. Used to have. I tell him about my mother and father, her cornflower blue eyes and sparkling laugh that had been my first memories. My father's witty conversation and family loyalty, how I would aspire to him when I was younger.

We do not talk anymore. Not really. Not now I know he is not really there. He tries to make me talk to him, look at him, anything. I try to resist, but it is so hard, especially when his feather light fingers brush my face, wiping away my tears, when he kisses me. I do not kiss back.

I never touch him. I do not want to feel his form give underneath my hand and for my skin to go through his, for me to feel nothing but the cold wind. I have enough nightmares already. Many of them occur here, on this patch of earth.

He sleeps with me when I have nightmares. Lies at my side, strokes my hair until I wake or fall into a more peaceful slumber. It was strange at first, there is nothing quite like waking up in a graveyard with your head on the tombstone of your lover and your lover's ghost lying beside you, looking into your eyes with a slight smile on his face and a sparkle in his eyes.

It has become normal, and that scares me more than the fact that I still see him though he isn't here. I have become used to him waking beside me, to his kisses and caresses that I can never respond to. I have gotten used to sleeping with ghosts.

My father says I have become sentimental and one of these days he is going to beat it out of me. But I know he will never do that. I am one of the only young wizards of my generation in this country, most of them having been wiped out by the war on Hogwarts. And I am his son.

My Master says the winds will change soon. The rebellions have been all but put down, even those who called themselves the Last Resistance, the ones who put up his tombstone. They cared for him and although his downfall meant the loss of the wizarding world it also meant the loss of a friend for many of them.

It was the loss of more than that for me though. I lost the thing that meant most to me, my truest friend and my beautiful, beautiful lover. He knew he was going to die, he told me so and I begged him not to fight. He didn't listen to me, of course. Stupid Gryffindor Heroism. He said that it was the reason for his life, that it was he had been meant for.

I screamed at him and told him he was wrong, that he had been meant for me, to stay with me, but he just smiled sadly and walked away. I cried myself to sleep that night, as I did many nights after the Final Battle. His eyes always flashing in my mind, filled with green fire as he defended a terrified first-year from the black, swooping form of a Dementor.

Then I remember his eyes in other situations, like clenched in ecstasy as I come in him and then wide with huge pupils ringed by molten green flames of desire as he comes too. I love his eyes. Loved his eyes. Because they are not there anymore. They appear in front of me and plead with me not to cry, but they are not real. They are only in my mind. I must keep reminding myself, because every time he speaks to me or touches me I feel my body crying out to his, six feet below and I want so much for him to be real. More than anything. More than the world, more than peace, more than life and more than death.

I still contemplate suicide every now and then. When the longing overwhelms me and I need to see him again. I would love so much for him to really stand beside me, really take my face in his hands and really kiss me. But he tells me I cannot, that I must live for him.

And I will. I love him more than life or death or in-between. I would kill for him, die for him and live for him. If I must live, then I _will_ live.

"Draco...Draco..." I hear my father calling me in the distance. He knows I will be here. I always am. I know he is here to take me to another of my Master's meetings. The rest of the time they leave me alone. They know I must stay here, that I will stay here forever if need be. Until I have forgiven myself for causing the death of my lover, my soulmate.

Next to me, I hear him start to hum, softly, quietly. It is a song I have heard before. He sings it as a goodbye, every time; as if he knows that one-day I might not come back. I turn and look at him as he sings and he smiles at me, perfection even as he fades and the song is lost on the night wind.

_"Hush  
It's okay  
Dry your eye  
Dry your eye  
Soulmate dry your eye  
Dry your eye  
Soulmate dry your eye  
Cause soulmates never die"_

Author's Notes: cries Its so sad. This fic is inspired by the song 'Sleeping with Ghosts' by Placebo. I just had this image in my mind when I listened to it and had to write this. I think I actually cried while I wrote it, I love Harry and Draco so much. Please review! If you have ideas for a sequel then I would be glad to write one. Leave them in a review.


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